


Loved Him Then, Love Him Still

by orphan_account



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Possibly Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22455631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Upon getting closer to the cottage, there was no denying that it was Jaskier’s home; it had every trace of his existence— dandelions in the cracks of the cobblestone(“They’re not bad, Geralt,” Jaskier had told him once, “Just because they’re weeds doesn’t mean they’re bad,”)potted plants hanging from strings by the windows, the lingering scent of orchids and oak and fancy perfumes.Geralt, many years after he tells Jaskier to leave, goes to find the bard he missed.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 199





	Loved Him Then, Love Him Still

**Author's Note:**

> edited 03/03/2020!

It wasn’t often that Geralt felt regret.

He could count on one hand the times he truly felt remorse for something. When he couldn’t save Renfri. When he bound his fate to Yennefer’s. When he let Jaskier go. When he didn’t follow after him.

 _You’re lying to yourself,_ his mind treacherously supplied. _You regret never telling him how you felt._ But it was true, and Geralt hated it. He hated that Jaskier had unravelled him, that he changed so much in the short time they knew each other, that Jaskier was never afraid of him like everyone else, that Jaskier had come into his world with his sweet words and string-calloused fingers and turned it upside down. He loathed, then, that he had allowed himself to fall in love.

It would’ve never worked out. Jaskier was a wild soul, falling in and out of love with anyone and everyone, even if he always stayed with Geralt. He would wax poetic about a beautiful lady’s bosom one night, fawn over a handsome man’s thighs the next morning, sing about men and women from his past exploits as they traveled together. Every time, Geralt let himself believe it was Jaskier’s voice that irritated him, not the subject of his gushing and singing, because he would have to accept he was jealous otherwise, and he wasn’t the kind of man to accept that.

 _Wasn’t._ One didn’t travel with Jaskier without changing in a way, and Geralt thought what changed in him was that he understood himself more, grew to be more in touch with the emotional side of him that he never trusted anyone to see— until Jaskier, that was. The bard made quick work of him; it was barely six months into their travel companionship, and Geralt found himself smiling more often. Two years in, and he could laugh comfortably around Jaskier. Five years in, and he found himself sharing more stories. Nine years in, and he felt a different kind of fear for the first time— when he realised how his feelings for the bard had changed.

Sixteen years in, and he told Jaskier that the greatest blessing he could receive from destiny was for him to be taken off his hands.

He didn’t see Jaskier again after that, not even in passing. Even then, there were traces of him _everywhere_. When Geralt would find himself in an inn, he would leave too much space on the seat next to him, like he expected someone to sidle up next to him and talk his ear off. When he would hear the strumming of a lute, his head would snap up towards the sound like it was a call of his name. When he would smell orchids and oak and a light mist of perfume, he’ll seek out the source of the scents. When he would smell the sea, he would think of the coast, think of when Jaskier had asked him to come with him. Gods, he was such a fool for turning him down.

He tried to find him. He knew the chances were slim for a multitude of reasons, but he tried anyways. He searched from Vicovaro to Kovir, and from Kovir to Metinna, and came up empty with every lead. He wondered if Jaskier had stayed true to his intentions of wanting to go to the coast, so he went, blindingly hopeful as he rode to Cidaris. He wondered if Jaskier wanted to just be close to the sea, or if he meant to settle down. He started with the former, which felt more likely, visiting town to town in search of any sign that his bard had been there recently, but he came up with nothing.

A Witcher’s senses were far more superior compared to a human’s, and Geralt knows to trust his eyes, ears, and nose. Right now, he didn’t want to trust his nose, which told him that Jaskier hadn’t been on the road in awhile, but maybe that was a blessing in disguise; that just meant Jaskier was probably living in a nice home, growing old and fat, which was more than a Witcher (or one traveling with) could ask for.

He tried to remember how many years it’s been since he’d last seen the man—ten, fifteen years?—and berated himself for taking so long to finally look for him. He’s outlived the last Roach, who began to tire easily and gallop with greater effort by the end of their journey. He left her in the hands of a Lyrian stable-master, who was more than elated to take care of an ageing mare as beautiful as Roach. The newer Roach was more affectionate than the last one and was considerably faster, but tired quickly and scared easily. She had irritated Geralt a lot when he first got her, especially when she took to the habit of bucking him off at the first sight of trouble, but he trusted the horse enough to take him where he needed to go. Roach, to her credit, steered him as far as possible from danger, which worked well enough when he wasn’t on a contract.

And as he rode this new Roach, he knew the mare understood him when he kicked her into a gallop at the faintest scent of orchids in a forest.

He tracked the scent down to a lone hill by the coast of Cidaris, and found a cottage atop the hill. The scent was stronger now, but it was still too faint to be recent. Upon getting closer to the cottage, there was no denying that it was Jaskier’s home; it had every trace of his existence— dandelions in the cracks of the cobblestone _(“They’re not bad, Geralt,” Jaskier had told him once, “Just because they’re weeds doesn’t mean they’re bad,”)_ potted plants hanging from strings by the windows, the lingering scent of orchids and oak and fancy perfumes.

 _Old scents,_ he noted, something in him sinking and despairing. He went for the door, which was expectedly locked, before deciding to enter through the window, unwilling to break the door down at the slim chance that Jaskier was still coming home, and while he never knew Jaskier as well as Jaskier knew him, he didn’t think the bard would be too happy with him destroying his door. He was hoping against hope, because every chance of finding Jaskier slimmed as he unclasped the window and crawled inside, until he was sure it was barely a string thick.

The home looked like it had been frozen in time. Nothing moved— no candle flame illuminated the room, no rodents skittered across the floorboards, no sign of there having been life here for awhile now. Geralt felt his world cracking apart when he found Jaskier’s lute sat on a shelf by the door. It was the same lute Jaskier had gotten from the elves of Dol Blathanna, the same lute he used to compose so many songs, mostly about Geralt. Upon further inspection, Geralt realised that the lute was covered in dust.

 _No one’s touched this for some time_ , he thought, and saw that it was the same for most of the items in the house. The house hadn’t been cleaned or even inhabited in awhile, and while cleanliness and hygiene was a luxury on the Path, Jaskier would have never let his home go to rot. Jaskier would never part with his lute either, even in the face of death, unless—

Geralt turned around and left through the door. His heart thumped faster, and as he stood outside the cottage, he breathed in deeply, surrounding himself with the last scents of Jaskier. The sun had set, and the sky had been painted a beautiful combination of orange, yellow, and blue. He wondered if Jaskier would sit outside and watch the sunset like he was doing so, except he probably wouldn’t have tears in his eyes, and he probably wouldn’t be _mourning_.

The Witcher picked himself up, wiping the tear tracks on his cheeks as he stared up at the sky. He hadn’t cried in a long time; not for Renfri, not for Vesemir, not for _Yennefer_ , and yet, he couldn’t have even tried to stop the tears in his eyes from falling and the sob in his throat from rising as he thought of _Jaskier_.

The scent of orchids and oak mixed with buttercups when he came upon a field of them close to the cottage, and he wondered if Jaskier had been the one to plant these; buttercups didn’t grow naturally in these parts of Cidaris, so he wondered at what point the bard had decided to buy seeds and plant them. Geralt never knew Jaskier as a planter, but he also never thought to ask. He wondered if, had they kept traveling together, he would have found out about this particular skill someday. He wondered if Jaskier would have still settled down at all if they kept traveling together. He wondered if he would have ever told Jaskier what he felt, and wondered if Jaskier would’ve felt the same.

He wondered. The field of buttercups swayed serenely with the wind, carrying the scent of the sea and the last wisps of orchid with it. Geralt knew that he’ll never know, and Jaskier never knew, so he let the wind carry his heart away too.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by Elsa’s Song by The Amazing Devil in their album Love Run, specifically the last verse. it’s so raw in a way that had me thinking of these two boys.
> 
> i’m [theratofrivia](https://theratofrivia.tumblr.com/) and [itsamemicah](https://itsamemicah.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


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